


Equivocation

by balmandbitterness



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Gen, Season/Series 01, Unresolved Romantic Tension, even i’m frustrated and i wrote it, like this fic will leave you frustrated, mentions of Mike - Freeform, mentions of qualice, requited but not resolved, set right after brakebills south
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balmandbitterness/pseuds/balmandbitterness
Summary: The use of ambiguous language to conceal the truth or to avoid committing oneself. Or, a verbal technique by which a magician gives an audience member an apparently free choice, but frames the next stage of the trick in such a way that each choice has the same end result.Eliot is day drinking. Quentin is not coming out. There are some misunderstandings, and some missed understandings. It’s all very romantic, probably, if you enjoy the feeling that there is something tremendous and crucial hovering just outside your grasp. Which Eliot does not.





	Equivocation

**Author's Note:**

> i sat down with every intention of writing a penny dreamwalking fic but i guess some days you are just bi and lonely and projecting onto two characters at once. so be it!
> 
> yeah i fully just copy-pasted definitions of the word “equivocation” in my summary. in my defense i am writing this in the wee hours of the morning and i am very tired and i read a lot of richard siken poems looking for title inspo and only succeeded in making myself emotional. take this magic term instead.
> 
> they’re both the magician, and they’re both the audience, and they’re both just a little bit hopeless.

It’s been a dreadfully long day of gorgeous, sunny skies and temperate breezes. Birds chirping, flowers blooming, grass greening, the whole shebang. So naturally Eliot is inside, drinking. 

Sure, it’s Sunday afternoon and the weather is so perfect he’s jealous of it, but he has no one to share it with. Margo is still at Encanto Oculto. Mike is off doing whatever it is Brakebills graduates do. God, even _Todd_ is better off than he is, probably clinging limpet-like to Margo’s arm as she conquers Ibiza singlehandedly. And what is Eliot going to do, arrange himself artfully on one of the patio chairs and enjoy what the great outdoors has to offer all by his lonesome? Don’t make him laugh. Really, don’t, he’d spit his wine everywhere. 

He’ll be fine by evening. It’s just that, even in the haze of the honeymoon phase, there’s still this doubt that creeps in around the edges. It seizes hold in solitary moments. And it’s not like he hasn’t dealt with this before, it’s not like it’s more than he can bear. He’s highly practiced at telling his feelings to shut the fuck up; he has two decades of carefully applied repressive tendencies behind him. It’s just that sometimes, in the quiet, the whispers of them are easier to hear. 

Hence the wine. Which means he’s alright, clearly. Just wine-level lonely. Not acid-level or anything nearly so dire. He’s just… all dressed up with no place to go, so to speak. Also literally. His velvet jacket makes him look positively _touchable_. 

He’s surreptitiously running his knuckles along the lapel (he is perhaps slightly tipsy, and it’s so _soft_ , someone should enjoy it) when Quentin walks in, clearly in some sort of huff. Ah, company. And in a foul mood, too. The perfect distraction. 

Eliot slides his legs off their perch on the arm of the couch and renegotiates his limbs into an uprightly seated position. “Bad day, Q?”

Quentin seems to hesitate for half a second and then his feet are carrying him forward to collapse on the couch next to Eliot. His face doesn’t lose the tentative expression, though, tension clear at the corners of his eyes and mouth even as he kicks his shoes off and pulls his feet onto the couch criss-cross style. “Kind of,” he answers. 

Eliot twists one hand through a quick duplication spell to create a twin for his wine glass, which he offers to Quentin. “Wanna drink about it?”

Q takes the glass. “Also kind of.”

“Excellent.” Eliot reaches for the bottle on the table and fills the new glass before freshening his own. “It’s so much more fashionable to drink with company.” He ruffles Quentin’s hair sloppily. 

Quentin doesn’t bother protesting, just waits until he’s done and then pats at his hair, trying to smooth it down into something socially acceptable. He misses a spot, just above his left ear, but Eliot’s not going to tell him that. He looks sweet, all disheveled. “Where’s, um. Where’s Mike?” he asks.

Eliot shrugs nonchalantly. “Somewhere far less important than here.”

“Oh.”

“So what’s got you looking all sad-puppy?” Eliot asks, because he genuinely wants to know, and because if he gets Q talking then his own gloomy thoughts won’t be able to get a word in edgewise. 

“I…” Quentin hesitates again. He looks down at his wine glass, and then up at Eliot, and then he seems to come to a decision. “It’s Alice. She’s been avoiding me.”

Ah. Girl drama. Ugh.

Quentin sips his wine and stares dejectedly at the bottle. 

…Okay, fine, he’ll bite. “Not so much the happy couple, then?”

“Not so much a couple at all,” he says dryly. “She doesn’t even want to be in a room with me. I sat down at the table across from hers in the library and she just got up and left.”

“That is… harsh,” says Eliot, unsure what else to say. It _is_ harsh. And not what he was expecting. 

Quentin shrugs. “Yeah, well. It’s been like this since we got back from Brakebills South. I don’t really know what to do, because everything I do is wrong, and makes things worse, and I just- I don’t know how to fix it.”

Eliot tilts his head and fixes Q with a sympathetic gaze. “Listen, I get that you hooked up. But if she’s really not interested, what’s stopping you from moving on? I mean, there are other fish in the sea and so on. Why are you so hung up on her? Was the sex that good?”

“It, it was...” he shakes his head rapidly and then downs the rest of his glass to avoid finishing the sentence. Adorable. “I don’t know, I just- I mean, it’s Alice. She’s smart, and gorgeous, and confusing, and kind of intimidating, which I guess is like, my type or something.” He sinks into the couch like a deflating balloon. “You know. Out of my league.”

Eliot rolls his eyes and refills Quentin’s glass, slinging an arm around him for balance. “Oh, please. ‘Out of your league.’ Nonsense. Either you have chemistry or you don’t.”

Quentin watches him over the rim of the glass. “Yeah. I guess so.” His eyes are strangely intent, as though maybe he’s actually internalizing what Eliot’s saying. 

Well, good. _Alice Quinn_ , out of _Quentin’s_ league. The idea is fucking comical. Not that he intends to say as much. 

“I just... I don’t know.” Quentin pours an unseemly amount of wine directly down his throat, then licks at a stray drop clinging to the corner of his mouth. God. And _god_. “I mean she’s not...” and he trails off into an unintelligible mumble. 

Eliot arches a brow and sips elegantly. He knows it’s elegant; he’s checked. “Come again?”

“I said she’s not the only person I’m interested in. It’s just that, it’s. Girls are. Easier, sometimes.”

Well. There’s certainly a lot of intrigue packed into that juicy little morsel of a stammered-out statement. The obvious question is _who_ because _god, who_? Eliot is suddenly desperate to know. But this is Q, he reminds himself, and he may be skittish. “Easier?” Eliot asks instead, figuring it’s the safest place to start. 

Quentin shrugs, nearly spilling his wine. “Yeah, you know. Just. Less complicated.”

Alright. Next question. “Less complicated than what?”

Quentin tilts his head back to give him an unimpressed stare. “Quantum physics, Eliot. Dating women is less complicated than dating quantum physics.”

“Is it?”

“ _Eliot_.”

“What? I wouldn’t know,” he says, widening his eyes in mock innocence. “It’s just, the way you said that, well. It seems like the largest viable alternative to women is, ah, _men_.”

Q snorts, like this is funny. “Yeah, I’ve heard of ‘em,” he says. 

“So dating women is less complicated than dating men?” Eliot asks, unaccountably determined to see this through to the conclusion. 

Quentin looks him right in the eyes as he says, “In my experience.”

And, oh, Eliot’s having a tiny heart attack he thinks. “Your experience of?” he asks, voice admirably even. 

“Of dating men,” Quentin says slowly, like Eliot is new to the English language, and yes, that is definitely a tiny heart attack he’s having. 

“I,” he says. “Oh,” he says. “How?”

Quentin stares at him blankly. 

“How… how are women easier?” Eliot clarifies. 

“Oh. Just, um, less baggage I guess?”

“Baggage?”

“Why do you look like I just hit you in the head with a two-by-four?” asks Quentin. 

That is a very good question. The answer to which is that Eliot _feels_ like Q has just hit him in the head with a two-by-four. Why does he feel like that, is an even better question. He has a _boyfriend_ , for Christ’s sake, what is he doing having palpitations over this? 

“I just,” Eliot starts, and then stops. He gulps his wine. “This isn’t where I foresaw the conversation going. I mean, I’m glad you told me, don’t misunderstand-”

“Hold on,” interrupts Quentin, sitting up suddenly. “Are you- ? What are you saying?”

“Just that I-”

“El,” says Quentin, who apparently isn’t going to let him finish his sentences anymore. “Eliot, I’m not- this isn’t me _coming out_ to you. I was never _in_.”

“In,” Eliot echoes. One word. See if he can interrupt that. 

“The _closet_.”

Oh. Huh. That. “You never,” begins Eliot, and then he doesn’t continue, _not_ because he doesn’t know what to say next, thank you very much, but because he is already anticipating Q cutting him off. 

“What?” snaps Quentin, and see, Eliot was right. “Sucked a dick in front of you? Is that what I have to do to make it real? Or, once I did that, would you just move the goalposts again?” He’s agitated, perplexingly so, gesturing jerkily so his wine does spill this time, sloshing onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

Eliot sets his own glass down on the table. “Q,” he says gently, resting his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just didn’t know.”

Quentin sighs and stills, all the turbulent energy going out of him at once. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the problem.” He leans back into the couch, looking just as dejected as he did earlier. “That’s why girls are easier.”

“I don’t understand.”

Quentin laughs. “Of course not,” he says, smile bittersweet, eyes soft with genuine affection. He’s always so easy to read. “Look, it’s like- guys, they always seem to want me to _prove_ something, you know? Prove it’s real, again and again. Prove I’m not some, some, confused straight dude, or like, just feeling experimental. ‘Bicurious.’ I fucking hate that word.” He tries to take a sip of his wine, realizes it’s all soaking into the rug, shrugs, and puts his glass down. “And even when they don’t, someone else does. I’m just tired of having to explain myself over and over again. Like, I shouldn’t have to do that. People aren’t entitled to that from me.”

“No, they’re not,” Eliot agrees, feeling distantly guilty. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“No. So I just thought maybe it would be nice to, to focus my attention on someone who actually believes me when I tell them I’m attracted to them. Only Alice _doesn’t_ believe me; she thinks it’s all just the fox thing. I don’t know, maybe she’s right. Funny how things work out.” He doesn’t say it like he thinks it’s very funny at all.

“Is it?” asks Eliot. “‘Cause it sounds like it sucks. You deserve to at least try to be with whoever you want to be with.”

Q looks at him for a long time, and Eliot gets the sense he’s mentally flipping a coin. Then Quentin looks away and shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t like Alice. Or women. I _like_ women. Like, a lot.”

“Yes, yes, clearly. This all just sounds a little like you’re pursuing the path of least resistance instead of whatever it is you really want.”

“Well.” Quentin folds his hands together in his lap, shoulders slumping, and oh, Eliot hates that. “I just… get tired, alright? Sometimes the path of least resistance is pretty appealing.” He looks up at Eliot with that strange, bittersweet smile again. “I mean, you didn’t even know. _You_ , El. I- I talk to you about everything, and somehow you missed this.”

Missed it indeed. But- “You never said,” Eliot protests. 

And Q looks bitter, bitter, bittersweet and fond, and Eliot doesn’t know how to feel about it. “How many times have you said the words ‘I’m gay’ to me, El?” he asks. 

And, well. “Uh. Probably none,” admits Eliot. “I haven’t really kept track.”

“Yeah, me neither,” says Q. “And how many times have you heard me call a guy cute, or use gender neutral terms to talk about my love life, or say something embarrassing about, like, Han Solo being dreamy?”

“I… don’t know,” Eliot responds carefully. He really doesn’t. Now he thinks of it, though, he’s sure it’s all happened a few times. All small things, all easy to overlook, or just… “I guess I never really took it seriously.” 

It’s the truth, but saying the words feels like adding weight to some invisible scale, and he has no idea what’s being measured or what the consequences may be, but he’s certain that the outcome has been affected in some deeply unfavorable way. 

“Yeah,” says Q, and his voice is soft, wounded. More wounded than it ought to be, really, like he’s nursing some other hurt beneath this one. “That’s kind of the whole problem.” He stands gingerly, as if sore. Eliot resists the urge to take his hand and pull him back down. To tell him _stay, please, stay, we’ll fix it_. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later, El.”

And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but an extra wine glass, a stain on the floor, and a terrible, gnawing feeling that Eliot has missed something profoundly important.

Eliot clears the stain away and reverses the duplication. There is no spell he knows to ease the strangeness in his chest. 

Maybe he’ll go to bed early tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> man all i do is write introspection and yearning. no wonder i love these two.
> 
> charlotte why are you hitting yourself.


End file.
